A Definite Perhaps
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: "It is not, after all, the mind that decides for whom the heart will fall." / A human AU set in the early 1920s, in which the relationship between a young artist and his substitute model goes beyond the laws of professionalism and develops into something a whole lot more than what they've bargained for.
1. On a Day Like This

I started writing this story at like 2 am, got 400 words or so down, then procrastinated for the rest of the day until I managed to finish chapter 1 in the evening. _Great._ Well, today I'm going to be celebrating my 21st fic by digging up my own grave and falling into this abysmal hole that is writing a multi-chaptered story. This is like the third time ever that I'll be writing a multi-chaptered fic, and it's my _first _actual AU to boot. This story is going to be set somewhat in the 1920s, with painter!Italy and amnesiac!reluctant-model!Germany. Haha.

It's been like a month since my last fanfic, I apologize for the delay and lack of updates but there was a brief period of drama that had to happen in my life this break... Anyway, I'm not yet that familiar/comfortable with writing for Germany and Italy, but hey, it wouldn't hurt to try, right? I hope I was able to make this first chapter decent, and hopefully all the future chapters to come. No beta for me this time 'round, since he's busy with school atm. If this doesn't please you, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.

Please do R&R! Favorites are great, and reviews mean the world to me. Love you guys! Happy reading!

**Disclaimer/s:** I don't own Hetalia. Nor do I own the cover picture. And this title which was nabbed off the 30kisses prompt list on lj. :))

* * *

The first thing that wakes Feliciano Vargas on that warm Sunday afternoon in the middle of April was not the sound of chirping birds or the music blaring from his old, nearly-antique radio set; neither was it the voice of his angry, older brother scolding him in Italian for falling asleep on the couch, for getting paint on the wooden floor, for sleeping past breakfast, or simply for everything altogether. Rather, it was the sound of a patient knocking on his apartment door, a shuffling of papers that resounded in the hallway, and a deep voice questioning whether or not somebody was home.

"_Si! Si! _Just wait, please. I'm coming," he calls out to his visitor as he rises blearily from the leather sofa, rubbing away the remnants of his sleep, grains of morning glory that rested at the corners of his eyelids. Porcelain white skin running through thick auburn tresses, he smoothens out his bedhead hair.

"_Ciao! _May I help you?"

"Good day to you, Mr. Vargas," the tall man hovers over the young Italian, greeting him politely as he clears his throat, expression slightly flustered. "I'm here in place of my brother, Gilbert Beilschmidt…"

"What? Gil? _Ve! _What happened to poor Gil? Is he sick?"

"No. No, it's nothing of the sort, Mr. Vargas. He just had some business to attend to back in Berlin. He called me this morning and gave me this address, and told me to come over in his stead…"

For a moment, Feliciano is left puzzled. He tilts his head to the side, a quizzical look plastered on his face. _Gilbert had a brother? Why was his brother here? And what sort of business did he have to do with Gilbert again today? Hmm… _He rests his fingers onto his temples, squinting his eyes in deep thought as he allowed his thoughts to come together in a slow click.

"Ah! So you're the new model for today, _si_?"

"M-model?" the German stutters in surprise. "I'm sorry, Mr. Vargas, I wasn't-"

"_Ve, _it isn't that hard! You just have to sit still and let me paint you. Oh, but don't worry, we can take it easy. If you start to feel uncomfortable, like if your back starts to ache or your neck starts to hurt or something like that, just let me know and we can take a break when you need it. I won't cut it from your pay or anything of that sort. Is that okay?"

"_Ja_, thank you for accommodating me into your schedule, Mr. Vargas…"

"Not at all," he smiles. "I should be the one thanking you. Now, please, there's no need for such formalities, _signore _…?"

"Ludwig. Ludwig Beilschmidt, sir."

"_Ve~ _Well, Ludwig – mind if I call you that? – come on in and make yourself at home. I'll just fix up my studio, and then we can start. Give me ten minutes."

The younger gives a nod and promptly follows the artist into his apartment, tucking the papers back into his suitcase, ears attuning themselves to the jazzy tune that played from the aging stereo set. He sets his things onto the floor, folding the blanket neatly aside before seating himself onto the leather couch nearby.

-x-

Ludwig takes a deep breath and props his shoulder onto his thighs, resting his head onto his palm, fingers curling halfway to a clenched fist. Only thirty minutes in to their first painting session, and his joints were already starting to hurt. Nonetheless, he says nothing and feigns indifference. All he had to do was flash a pose, hold still, and let the artist do as he pleased. It wasn't exactly easy, but then again, there were a lot more jobs that were more difficult than this one, and this had been a request given to him by his big _bruder. _He didn't want to let anyone down. Surely, Ludwig could handle something like this.

"_Ve~ _Are you sure you're alright over there?" the artist calls out to him from behind the easel, concern riding on bright amber orbs that peeked from over the edge of the canvas.

A soft grunt. "_Ja. _I'm alright. Carry on, Mr. Vargas."

"Okay… I'm just doing the base sketch for today… Hey, wait, could you face the other side? Tilt your head a little to the left, to my left – er, I mean, to your right, …. no, more to the center...left…uh, a little higher? Yes! There. Perfect. Hold still for just a little longer, _per favore._"

The blonde follows the artist's instructions accordingly, and they carry on with this for the next two and a half hours. He changes his position ever so slightly every ten minutes, following suit to the artist's every whim and request. This was just the "base sketch" as he had heard Feliciano say, the framework and main foundation of his masterpiece. It was understandable that an artist like he would be very particular about such details. Ludwig understands this, and although he couldn't stop the tired sighs that he would constantly emit every now and then, not once would he ever allow even a single complaint escape his lips.

"Ludwig, move your head to the left again, please. Now, turn this way. Okay."

He sets his gaze onto the view outside the artist's window, blue sky mirrored in the sea of his cerulean irises. The ticking of the clock lulls him to a sleepy daze, torpor creeping onto his aching limbs. He let his eyelids flutter to a close for a brief moment, vision blurring to a hazy black, contentment settling in. His head lolls over to the side, sleep overcoming him briefly.

The artist chuckles at the sight of this scene, lead smearing his fingertips as he sets his things aside. The clattering sound of pencils is enough to wake the model, and his head shoots back up, almost immediately, eyes snapping open in momentary panic.

"Ah! _Entschuldigen sie! _I am sorry, Mr. Vargas." Ludwig blurts out an apology in shame, readjusting his position back to the last.

"_Va bene. _Please don't worry about it. You're tired, aren't you, Ludwig? Let's take a break and call it a day, _si? _Would you care to join me for my _merenda_?" Feliciano asks him, his smile warm and forgiving, his tone even and inviting.

Ludwig shakes his head, throwing a glance at his wristwatch as he casts an apologetic look towards the artist. "No, there is no need, Mr. Vargas. I'm afraid that I must take my leave and return home now, before the last train departs. I am terribly sorry for the bother. _Nun…Auf Wiedersehen, _Mr. Vargas." He bows politely and leaves to gather his things.

"Will you come again tomorrow?" Feliciano takes his lead and follows suit, an unsteady hand gripping onto the hem of his shirt. He hides it behind his back as he faces the German, praying that the slight waver in voice will remain unnoticed.

"Yes, Mr. Vargas. Will three o'clock be fine?"

"_Ve~ _Of course it is!_"_

"Alright. Thank you, Mr. Vargas."

"See you then, Ludwig."

"Yes, Mr. Vargas. See you."

He turns the knob and holds the door open for his guest, features softening with relief at the sound of the younger's reply. The German tips his hat in a courteous gesture, grabbing his suitcase and setting foot into the hallway, departing from the apartment in medium-paced steps.

The timbre of a voice calls out to him once more, and the German is forced to stop in his tracks, turning his head to let his eyes fall onto its short-statured owner.

"Oh, and Ludwig?"

"_Ja?"_

The artist smiles. "Feliciano's just fine."

* * *

So...how was it? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Have a nice day!

**Translations:**

[Italian]

_Si - _Yes

_Ciao - _Hello

_Va bene - _It's okay/alright

_signore - _Sir

_per favore - _please

_merenda - _snack time (I think)

[German]

_Ja _- Yes

_bruder - _brother

_Entschuldigen sie - _Excuse me

_Nun…Auf Wiedersehen - _Well...goodbye


	2. Correspondence

Here you go, guys! Chapter 2! :) I'm so sorry huhuhu I suck at AUs idek what to do with my life anymore gahhh forgive me :( :(

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

The second painting session is no more different than the first. Neither are the third and fourth sessions that happen on the subsequent days of Tuesday and Wednesday that same week. They last for two to three hours at most, with Ludwig remaining stoic and obedient, and Feliciano quiet and patiently at work – stopping only to wash his brushes or allow the oil to settle and dry before he could add another layer onto the canvas.

It is at these times that Ludwig joins Feliciano for his _merenda, _where they simply sit and stay quiet for the remainder of the afternoon, lounging around on the leather sofa with a cup of coffee in hand as they let their minds drift off peacefully to the rhythmical sound of the musical bliss that is Al Jolson. Sometimes, Feliciano would doze off and take a _siesta _on the couch, during which Ludwig would take it as his cue to quietly exit, scribbling a note, which he then left on the coffee table to inform the elder of his leave, as well as to thank him for his time on that day.

Other times, while they would wait for the paint to dry, they would talk, but only about minor things. Like about the daily news, how Ludwig's work had been at the office that day, what Feliciano had cooked last night for supper with his _fratello, _and the like. The young Italian would always be the one to start with his questions, and Ludwig would always him give short, straight to the point answers. He would give him the facts, the news, but never would he choose to ramble on about his emotions regarding them. He would never let their conversations go too deep. They were still somewhat within the range of strangers who've just met. Or at least to Ludwig, they were.

But things were bound to change for them, sooner or later.

The artist motions closer, watching as the light streams past the window, falling onto the model's features, bathing him in the radiant glow of the late afternoon. A calloused hand meets Ludwig's chin, tilting his gaze upwards; faces converging only inches apart. Champagne irises stare straight into the bright sea of blue, fingertips entangling themselves in fine strands of flaxen gold, the artisan's touch brushing past his chin and lingering for a moment far too long. Words escape parted lips – a soft whisper that left behind heated breaths, tickling his skin as the elder pulled the model just a little bit closer.

_"You're beautiful, Ludwig."_

It isn't a question this time, just a plain and simple observation. A mere fact that should not have been given too much thought, given their circumstances and the situation they had been in at that moment in time. However, the manner in which the Italian delivered this certain statement soon proved to be enough to incite some sort of spark within the German – as well as cause him to raise an eyebrow slowly in a questioning stance.

"Er…Excuse me?" He replies, clearly taken aback by the artist's sudden comment; pushing him away until they had established a more appropriate distance.

The Italian lets out another soft _"Ve~," _accompanied by the sound of gentle laughter. "Well, you don't look like Gil at all, despite being brothers; you're more muscular and you've got a bigger built, and you don't smile nearly as often…yet, somehow, you give off this aura of a gentle person. And I like that. I like how you look. You remind of me of a boy I used to know."

Ludwig cocks an eyebrow, his feelings developing to an unquenchable curiosity to discover more about this strange, intriguing artist.

"We never had a father, and _Mama _died when giving birth to me. I lived in Italy with Lovino and my grandfather_, _but then _Nonno_ passed away too and I was taken in by a couple who lived all the way in Austria. They were nice people. _Mio fratello_ lived with big brother Antonio in Spain. They would visit sometimes, and that always helped me feel better. I was sad at first, having to be separated from Lovi, but then there was this little boy who befriended me. He was awkward, and I never knew his name because we hardly even talked, but he was so sweet and kind – bringing me food, handing me little gifts…he had always been there for me when I needed someone. Thanks to him, not once did I ever feel lonely. And – well, you might find this strange – but I really did love that boy."

And Ludwig thinks that it is, indeed, very strange. The idea of falling in love with someone without even knowing his or her name seemed ludicrous – preposterous, even. But then again, what right did he have to say anything about that? Love was love, and love in itself was a beautiful thing to experience in a human's life, and Ludwig was not one to be the person who wished to stain the delicate canvas of a human's fragile emotions.

The blonde shakes his head, reasoning out before any of his words could be taken to offense. "_Nein_. Do not worry, I do not find it strange, not even in the slightest. It is fine. We cannot always take control of our emotions, as we cannot always choose whom exactly it is we will love. It is not, after all, the mind that decides for whom the heart will fall."

"I see. _Grazie," _the elder says, his grateful amber orbs shining brightly as he takes the German's hands and cups it in the palms of his very own. "Thank you, Ludwig."

The model closes his eyes for a moment and inhales deeply. He takes in the aroma of the studio, breathing in the scent of oils and paint and musty wood, and a mouth-watering aroma that wafts into the room from the kitchen two doors away. A number of spices he could not name, and the faint trace of tomatoes and pasta mixing in with sweet vanilla and brewed coffee. Ludwig could not find himself understanding why, but somehow, this somewhat familiar scent had calmed him. A smile finds its way onto his face. A pang of nostalgia strikes him. And he thinks, regardless of how strange and odd it may be, that it smells vaguely like _home_.

_"Ve, _I think the canvas is dry enough for me to paint on another layer. We can continue now if you'd like, _si_?"

Forced to depart from his train of thought, he opens his eyes once again to look at the artist. Ludwig only nods.

* * *

Translations:

[Italian]

_Nonno - _Grandfather

_Mio fratello - _my brother

_Grazie - _Thank you

_Si - _Yes

[German]

_Nein - _No

Thank you for reading. Please leave a review or a critique if you'd like. I don't really know if this is worth continuing, but I'll try to work on the next chapter if and when I can. Thank you, guys! I love you all!


	3. A Case of Aesthetics

Hi there! Here's chapter 3, proofread and beta'd by my awesome best friend, WHADDAPACK. For MaKorra fans out there, please do check out his new fic! He's great! :)

Sorry for the wait. Happy reading!

**Disclaimer: **Once again, I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

Patches of light peek in through the sheer fabric of the window curtains, the late afternoon sun basking the artist in the light of its rays, a radiant shine that perfectly complemented the brightness of his eyes. The Italian must have been mistaken. While Ludwig was complimented for having great physical features, given his role as a model, Feliciano's beauty was unlike any other.

His hair a dark auburn, his eyes a deep amber, his body lithe and petite. Had this been any other person, Ludwig would have probably considered him just a little bit above average, cute if not handsome, and would have ended it there, leaving no more room for further explanation. But no, Feliciano was more than that. He _deserved _more than that.

Just one good look and it was easy to tell that Feliciano Vargas was more than just a pretty face. His was a metaphysical form of beauty that transcended even the aesthetical sense of the word, going past the ostensible perfection of his skin, his eyes, his features, and his smile, reaching into his very persona, the core and essence of his being. There was just something about him; something unique, something different – something _strangely enticing._

It harbored a feeling that clawed at his soul, his consciousness, grabbing his attention with such great intensity that Ludwig found himself wanting to dig in even deeper, even farther, to unravel the mystery behind this beautiful being. He wanted to discover more about the Italian – his fears, his joys, his happiness, his sadness, his emotions, and his secrets; every reason and fact about his very existence.

And if there was ever any thing that could have been used to define the existence of Feliciano Vargas, it most certainly had to be the passion and the fervor he held for his artistic masterpieces.

So he watches the man, with every scritch of a pencil meeting the surface of a canvas, with every stroke of a brush gliding across a vast expanse of white. He watches his hands, so adept and skilled, crafting and creating and cradling, with the mere touch of his fingertips, an entirety of a whole new world all his own.

"Why do you paint?" Ludwig asks the man, his voice perceivably loud amidst the broken silence and the whirring of the electric fan in the artist's studio.

The Italian looks at him briefly, tawny eyes trapped in pensive thought, before he turns away and sets his gaze onto the view outside the window. Beads of amber falling languidly onto the world where the trees danced with the breeze and the shadows of people oscillated on the stony, pebbled sidewalk underneath their feet.

"I paint because I want to remember. And also because I want to forget."

"_Entschuldigung_ …?" Ludwig replies, bemused. He didn't quite catch the last thing Feliciano had said.

"Oh, _scusa_,what I mean is…to me, painting is like an escape, I guess. It helps me remember the past better, helps me relive all my happy memories, and when I do that, I get to forget about all my sad ones too. Aren't we all the same, Ludwig? Don't you have things you want to forget? Don't you have things you want to remember and keep on replaying and reliving to get rid of that pain, too?"

"I guess most people are like that," he agrees with the artist, only to shake his head soon afterwards. "But I'm afraid that I am not like most people, sadly."

The answer is enough to bring the artist to a complete stop. The model's words have left him feeling lost and confused, sensing the loneliness that resides deeply within the German's expression and subtly shaky voice; a loneliness, Feliciano thinks, that is not so far different from his very own.

He sets his brushes aside, the faint rattle of plastic meeting wood seemingly unheard and ignored by the pair. He pauses from his work as he turns to face the blonde, their eyes meeting for a second time.

"_Perché, _Ludwig? Why is that so?"

"It was during the war back in 1917, when I had been stationed to the lines in Messines. The British opposition detonated numerous mines, and I had been caught in the aftermath of the explosion. And when I came to, I found myself in a hospital room; a man with silver hair and ruby red eyes sat at the foot of my bed and smiled at me. He said that he was _mein bruder._"

"_Ve~ _Was that Gil?"

"_Ja_, it was Gilbert. I didn't believe him at first, since we looked nothing alike, but when I thought of leaving him and going back to my home…I realized that I did not know where my home was anymore. I did not remember anything about myself. I had lost all my memories."

"_Davvero? _So you don't remember anything? Not anything at all?"

"_Nun…_there was this girl. A _mädchen. _And every night, without fail, I would see her in my dreams. They were always so vivid; so clear and precise down to each very detail, that I am certain that they had to be more than just imaginary. She had dark brown hair worn short in a pixie cut, caramel yellow eyes that twinkled like the stars, and she would always wear this dress, a light earthy green, the same shade as that of leaves and flowerbuds in the first few days of spring. She was beautiful, _sehr schön, _but I only wish that I could see her smile. Or at least, I wish I could remember the moment when that girl last did. She was always crying in my memories."

"_Perché è così?"_

He turns to the Italian and shakes his head, directing his gaze to the wooden floor. A small cough escapes him, then he opens his mouth to speak; his voice so quiet that Feliciano wondered if he had meant for him to hear it.

"Because the only memory I have left of her was of the day we said goodbye."

* * *

**Translations:**

[Italian]

_scusa - _Excuse me/I'm sorry (casual)

_Perché - _Why

_Davvero - _Really

_Perché è così? - _Why is that so?

[German]

_Entschuldigung - _I beg your pardon.

_Nun - _well...

_mädchen - _girl/maiden

_sehr schön - _very beautiful

**I'd love to hear from you guys, so please don't hesitate to leave a review and and let me know what you think about this fic so far~ Thank you so much; I love you all! :)**


	4. Our Distance and That Person

Sorry for the wait, everyone! School starts in a week, so expect my updates to become slower from now on. I'll do my best to continue, though. Have fun reading! Please R&R!

A BIG THANK YOU to my best friend **Whaddapack **because of his forever-amazing beta-ing skills (like seriously bro I'm so grateful for everything) and thank you for putting up with me despite my weirdness and for always tolerating my rabid fangirl spazzing. :) *bows* orz orz orz

And a shoutout to **HandMTomatoes **because I'm so glad to have made such an awesome friend/friends thanks to this humble little fic of mine. Hi there, Ha-chan & Mi-chan! :D

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia belongs to Himaruya-sama, and not to me.

* * *

There isn't a single detail neglected or forgotten from his memories on that day. And though these dreams of his have come from an experience in years far from their current time, he _still _remembers everything from that moment long, long ago.

He remembers the green grass and the rosy fields, the colour of her dress and the fragrance of her hair, the warmth of her hands and the kindness in her eyes, and the tears that fell endlessly as they stained her flushed cheeks. Their two lone figures standing in a meadow amidst the gusting breeze, the wind carrying her scent of basil spices and warm vanilla; small, delicate hands cradling a memento of clothed white before his eyes. Promises exchanged and a single farewell uttered, and then at long last, the waning figure of the beautiful girl evanescently stolen in the merciless grasps of sleepless, waking eyes.

"She would hand me a white fabric and whisper a goodbye. The girl stammered as she spoke, and I would reach my hand out to her, hoping to wipe away her tears and ask her not to cry. But she paid me no heed as she looked at me in the eye and take my hand in hers, and I could only watch as she opened her mouth and moved her lips slowly to speak to me again…"

"_E poi…_?" The artist asks innocently as his eyebrows arch upwards, the hem of his shirt marred from the paint of his crimping, oil-stained hands. Feliciano beams warmly and urges for him to continue, "And then what would happen?"

"And then…" the German pauses, deep in thought as he furrowed his eyebrows in an attempt to remember. "And then nothing. _Nichts. _I would wake up."

"Oh. Do you…at least, do you remember what it was that she said to you?"

"_Nein," _the model says with a remorseful shrug_. _"The dream ends there."

He crosses an arm over his chest, clinging onto his elbow for support as the other hand falls loosely to his side; crescent nails digging into the skin of his dirtied palm, the Italian's smile falling from his pale, thin face.

"That girl," the brunette says with a wistful sigh. "She loved you, you know."

"How can you be so certain?"

"_Ve~ _I just am," he says with a cheery laugh. "And how about you, Ludwig? You love her too, don't you?"

He clears his throat and lets out a cough before he responds, "Perhaps, I did."

The Italian nods as he tilts his head up in a brisk motion, returning his gaze to the German model. "I like you, Ludwig. I really do. You're my friend, and I wish that you and this girl would be able to find happiness together. Much more than what I had to go through."

There's a flicker in his eyes and a quiver in his lips, so he purses them shut and takes to biting his tongue; tearing his gaze away in haste so as not to let his actions become noticed by the troubled German. "I know how it feels to lose someone, Ludwig. That boy I told you I loved? I lost him in that war. Just like how that girl almost lost you."

"I'm sorry for your loss, I–"

"_Dicami,_ Ludwig," Feliciano interrupts, resigning himself to lean onto the wall for support; his slender frame highlighted against the contrasting hues of ecru walls and russet stripes. "What do you think of happy endings?"

The model says nothing in response, and so the artist takes this as his cue to continue.

"You're a soldier before, weren't you?" the artist says with a wave of his brush as he began to continue his work. "_Ve!_ Well, here are my assignments for you, mister soldier sir! You're going to go out there, and reunite with that girl. Then you'll take her out to go on a date with you, where you'll talk and laugh and dance together as you try to reminisce the good ol' times. _Ah_…but Ludwig, you don't seem like the type to dance, so maybe a dinner will do fine. A romantic dinner with the best wine and the most delicious pasta you'd both love, and you'll hand her some flowers that'll sweep her off her feet. And then – _bam!_ – you'll kiss her. You'll kiss her underneath the stars and you'll tell her that you love her. And she'll kiss you back and say that she loves you too, and you'll live happily every after in the arms of one another once again. There you go, Ludwig. That's your happy ending. It's going to be _meraviglioso! Perfetto! _Absolutely perfect!"

He raises the brush and points it at the model, ending his statement with a playful wink. "So…do I make myself clear, soldier?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Ludwig says in between hearty laughs, consoled from his thoughts as he plays along to the Italian's little game, raising his hand in a false salute. The sight of his happy face is wonderful thing to behold, a brilliant picture that drew Feliciano into a daze, urging the artist within him to paint and recreate this treasured memory once more.

Only then does Feliciano step away from the canvas, rising from his seat and moving towards his model. Grabbing hold of the German's wrist, he cradles his chiselled jaw in his palms, smearing his skin with muddied streaks from oil-laden hands. Their cheeks flushing madly in a bright rosy red, brought about by the onset of the afternoon heat. Or so they say.

"Let this be a promise between the two of us, " he says as he rests his forehead onto the other's own, a sworn oath spoken amidst hushed tones and unwavering gazes. "Promise me that you'll find her. _Promettami, _Ludwig."

The German nods and clears his throat, wringing out the collar of his shirt in a slightly flustered manner. "_J-ja," _he stammers in response, clearly taken aback by the action; blue eyes wide with surprise. _"Ich verspreche."_

He loosens the hold of his grasp, planting a soft kiss on the furrows above the model's brow, lips brushing briefly past the other's skin. "For good luck," he says, with misted eyes, his features adorned with a warm yet weary smile.

Ludwig backs away slowly, heading to the door to collect his belongings as he prepared to depart. It was getting late, he reasoned, and he had to leave now before he missed the last train on his way home. He makes a promise to return at the same time on the next day to continue their painting session, and bids farewell to the artist with a polite bow and a firm shake of his hand.

"I'll wait." He says as he lets go and the door slams shut, breathing out a promise in an almost-silent whisper.

_"I'll always wait." _

* * *

**Translations:**

[Italian]

_E poi…? – _And then…?

_Meraviglioso - _marvellous

_Perfetto- _Perfect

_Promettami – _Promise me

_Dicami - _Tell me

[German]

_Nein - _No

_Nichts - _nothing

_Ja - _yes

_Ich verspreche. – _I promise.

* * *

Please favorite, follow, and most importantly - review! Please don't be shy, I'd love to hear what you think of the story. Thank you so much, love you all :)


	5. If It Could Be You

Okay, so hello once again my dearest readers! So sorry for the long wait! I've been planning to put this fic on hiatus until my next school break, but luckily, I was able to squeeze in some time since last week to work on this humble little chapter when I didn't have much homework eating up my time. This chap is unbeta'd. I feel that my writing skills are regressing. School is hectic and total bullshit and it has sapped me of my creativity and has greatly decreased my will to live. I'M SO SORRY GUYS QAQ

On a totally random note, I just finished reading Why We Broke Up (by Daniel Handler/Lemony Snicket) and The Timekeeper (by Mitch Albom). Amazing books, I tell you. You guys should definitely give 'em a shot and read them soon. :D

Oh, and Ha-chan, I remember you told me you were hooked on the German bros a couple of days ago - hopefully, you still are now - so I hope this chapter helps satisfy your little fangirl heart. Consider this as my way of thanking you for that sweet little birthday fic you (and Mi-chan) made for me :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia.

Please review! :)

* * *

The lights are on when Ludwig makes it back home, and it comes as no surprise when he swings the door open that he is greeted by the sight of open suitcases strewn across the floor - clothes folded neat and crisp - the scent of cooked meat and fresh beer, and the sound of ragtime jazz blaring from the cheap stereo nearby. A dash of yellow, and the squeaking tweet of a little pet bird–

_Ah. _

Could it be?

"_Bruder_?" he calls out before entering, his voice loud yet hesitant.

"West!" A voice calls out to him, a baritone lilt as sweet as a song, coated thickly with an accent unmistakably akin to that of his own native tongue. Warm. Calming. Familiar. _"Willkommen zurück."_

And it all clicks in place.

"Where are you?" he hollers out in response, removing his coat and setting it aside on the fabric sofa.

"_Hier_," he hears the voice reply, and his blue eyes dart to the source of the sound. A man turns around from his spot in front of the stove, a thin apron hanging loosely over his neck, crimson eyes burning brightly like the fire. "Yo! Lucky you, my dear _bruderlein. _The awesome me is making dinner for us tonight."

The oil sizzles in the pan with its searing heat, small puffs of smoke escaping slowly and filling the room. Ludwig nods, taking in the aroma as he closed his eyes. "That smells delicious, _bruder."_

"_Kesesesese~ _I'm cooking _wurst _so of course it smells delicious! And it's going to taste delicious too," he exclaims, snorting proudly as Ludwig held back a chuckle. He raises his thumb and flashes it to his brother, a triumphant smile adorning his features. "Trust me. It's going to be awesome."

"_Ja. Natürlich, bruder. _I'm looking forward to it."

And almost as though on cue – and in agreement, moreover– their stomachs growl in unison. A flush of embarrassment heats up the German blonde's cheeks and he lets out a false cough. Ludwig says nothing. Gilbert only laughs.

-x-

"So ya' know," Gilbert says in between spoonfuls of wurst and mashed potatoes, "I dropped by ol' Roddy's place last week-"

"Roddy?" Ludwig cocks an eyebrow as he raises a glass to his lips, sending the Prussian a questioning gaze over a mouthful of beer.

"You know…Roderich? The stuck up little master –er, I mean…aristocrat?"

"I believe you are referring to Mr. Edelstein?"

"_Ja, _that guy. Jeez, West. You gotta quit bein' so uptight, ya'know. All that formal speech of yours is gonna murder me with its…its boringness."

"Well, forgive me for considering my manners –"

"Manners _schmanners_," the Prussian interrupts with a flippant wave of his hand. "_Mein gott, _Lud, now I'm totally regretting leaving you in Austria with him when I went to work in the city. That guy pretty much raised you back when you were a kid. No wonder all his boringness rubbed off on you more than my own awesomeness," he exclaims as in mock-despair as he raises a hand to his temples, heaving a heavy and overly dramatic sigh.

"What do you mean by that, _bruder_? You sent me to Austria? When was this?"

"Yeah, I did. It was way too long ago for me to remember the exact year, but I do remember that you were there up until the time they started recruiting soldiers for the war. Man, I'm surprised you even managed to forget about that though. You were bawling like a baby the moment you saw Roderich's face. It was hilarious! I had to give you my cross because of that. It was the only way you'd stop crying." He stops to guzzle the remaining millilitres of his _Hackerbräu. _"And besides, it was the only way I knew how to help you remember me while I was gone and stuff."

The sound of silver clinking against porcelain is brought to an abrupt halt. Ludwig pauses from taking a bite, the spoon hanging still in mid-air from his unmoving grip.

The food never makes it to his mouth.

"_Bruder, _I-"

"Ah, but then I forged another one of my own," he says, fumbling as he undoes his buttons, muttering excitedly to himself. "That way, we'd have matching 'bro necklaces' while we're at it."

He scoops the pendant out from within his shirt, revealing a large cross, embedded with rich onyx at its core. Silver coated around its edges in fine lining. A thin string of sparkling grey, the material made of steel, chained together in fine loops that held it all together. The pendant dangled from his pale fingers, the dark jewel reflecting the world in a splendor of light, like the aurora borealis, a radiant chrysalis that shimmered proudly in the northern night sky.

"I designed them myself. I can tell you for a fact that you can't find any other of its kind. Made 'em especially for just you and me." His eyes lit up and flickered with pride. Gilbert beamed. "Awesome, isn't it?"

Orbs of bright sapphire meet dark ebony, blue eyes ogling the cross that swivelled slightly and dangled from the chain. Ludwig nods, his eyes never leaving the gem. He continues to look on, his gaze captured, mesmerized.

"Hey West, do you still have yours?"

Ludwig shakes his head sadly, pointing to the bare spot underneath his neck. "_Nein, _Gil.I'm sorry, I don't think I-"

"Nah, that's okay. Never mind the necklaces; don't sweat it, Lud. Besides, no matter what, we'll still be bros in the end anyway," he tells him encouragingly, the elder's tone even and reassuring. "You got that, West?"

"_Danke, bruder."_

Gilbert grins from ear to ear, flashing a wink at his younger brother. Saffron feathers flock towards him. A petite bird chirps, its wings fluttering past, and perches atop broad shoulders. The sight of it all is familiar and comforting, like a pleasant wave of nostalgia passing through his mind, a calming warmth engulfing his chest. Ludwig can't help but smile.

"Welcome home, Gilbert," he says, startling the Prussian from the sudden shift of their conversation's topic.

The Prussian looks at him quizzically, before his features relax and he allows himself to settle back into the pleasant calm of the late evening – a cheery laugh, a warm smile, and the words that Ludwig has dearly missed since his long-forgotten years as a child.

"It's good to be back, West."

The gears turn, their bond rekindles, and the night goes on.

* * *

**Translations:**

_Hier - _(over) here

_Ja - _Yes

_Bruder - _Brother

_Willkommen zurück -_ Welcome back

_Bruderlein - _Little brother

_wurst - _German or Austrian sausage

_Natürlich - _Of course/naturally

_Mein gott - _My god

_Hackerbräu -_ A popular brand of beer

_Nein - _No

_Danke - _thanks

...schmanners isn't a german word or anything btw, just pointing that out to avoid any confusion or future misunderstandings. Gil just wanted make fun of the word, hehe.


	6. Precarious

Just a little something I made during the holiday, and it's more of a filler chapter more than anything else, but I figured it was about time I update this fic while I can. This is sorta rushed and unbeta'd due to lack of time but I guess it was alright (I totes feel that my writing skills have regressed since school though so I'm sorry guys ;A; my life's a bitch and my schedule's hectic and I just wanted to give you guys a little something while I still could!) R&R please, but please don't flame me QAQ

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Hetalia and its characters.

* * *

A young couple stands alone together atop the meadows in the hillside; clothes tossing and flitting with the gusting breeze, voices whispering distantly and hushed, lone figures watched over by the prying eyes of the rising morning sun.

_"We'll see each other again," _one promises, as an onyx cross is handed over by a pair of calloused hands, resting in the palms of thin fingers and milky-white skin.

_"No matter how many hundreds of years go by, I'll always love you more than anyone else in the world," _swears the other, as parted lips lean in closer and shrink the distance that lay between the rosewater pair.

A clock ticks to five as the sun peeks through the curtains and its rays nestle into the room; bright amber orbs fluttering open in shock before a single breath can be exchanged more. A pale hand grabs hold of the cross, its shaky grip never letting go of the ebony pendant as it rests atop the Italian's aching chest.

-x-

There's the sound of muffled voices he hears from behind the door. Outside the hallway, Ludwig slows down his pace in order to prevent himself from interrupting what he presumed to be a heated conversation.

"I told you I'm fine. _Sono benissimo. _Please don't worry about me, _fratello _–"

"Don't give me that. _Hai sognato di lui? _Did you see him again?"

"_Si, _but then– "

"Then damn it, Feli, you aren't fine at all. Here, take this. It'll help your fever."

"_Ve, _no need to, _fratello_. It's almost gone now. I'll be fine-"

"Ugh. You're impossible. Just take it in case; it might go up again if you don't. I'll drop by again later with some more meds and let's get you drugged up and well soon, alright? No buts. And if you fuckin' say that you're fine one more time I swear to _Dio, _Feli-" The sound of a honking car bellows from the streets below the apartment floor, halting his speech as their conversation is cut short.

"Wait. Shit. Okay, I have to go now. Antonio's waiting in the taxi outside. Just rest up, okay? I'll see you tonight."

The older brother mouths a curse and a hasty goodbye as he makes his way out the door, a soft _tsk _escaping him as he flashes a grumpy scowl towards the German's direction and heads to the taxi. Without a word, Ludwig eyes the Italian and sidesteps to the left, making way for the irascible and seemingly cantankerous brunette to pass through.

"_Ve! _Sorry about that, Ludwig. That was my brother, Lovino. He's in one of his grumpy fits again, but he's really a kind person inside-"

"You had a twin?" he asks as he enters through the doorway and faces Feliciano; confusion riddling his features, mouth slightly agape from bewilderment and awe. It was strange seeing such an angry expression worn by someone who had the same face as the cheerful artist.

"We aren't twins, although we do get that a lot," the auburn-haired boy denies and he chuckles at the blonde's inquiry. "He's older than me by a year. We do have the same birthday though: the seventeenth of March. Don't ask me how or why though," he says with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders, securing the blanket-turned-shawl that hung over his small frame. "It just happens."

"Mhm," Ludwig hums distractedly as he gestures to the canvases that lay wrapped on the floor. "What's all this?"

"Oh, I have a show coming up two days from now. I'm sending my pieces to the gallery tomorrow, so I have to compile and assemble all my works today."

"But aren't you sick?" the German replied sharply, gaze transfixed on the young artist as he assessed the Italian's condition. Bags hung from underneath his eyes and his smile had lost its usual glow. His eyes, red and puffy, looked tired and deprived of sleep. If anything, however, Feliciano didn't look sick. It was almost as if he had just recently been crying.

"No, I'm fine. I'm not sick anymore. I just didn't sleep well last night," Feliciano explains wearily, dreams still caught in his eyes as he stifles a yawn to speak. "I'll be fine by tomorrow. I just have to carry them over in morning and I'll be free again later on in the afternoon anyway."

"Carry?" the model turned to his employer in disbelief. "Why don't you get a truck to deliver them, or have the gallery owners drop by to pick them up instead? From what I've heard from your brother, shouldn't you be resting?"

"It's fine," the Italian dismisses him with a shake of his head. "I wouldn't want to spend too much money on sending them over. I'll be okay, Ludwig."

"But isn't that a little too much for you to do on your own? Which gallery will you be bringing these pieces to?"

"The Heckscher Museum of Art. It's only four blocks away. I'll be fine," he says, repeating himself for the umpteenth time that day.

The blonde stared blankly at the pile of canvases, his thoughts drifting momentarily away in pensive thought. "Pardon me for the intrusion, but I really think you should take it easy. _Drücken sie sich nicht. _If you'd like, I can help you bring them to the gallery tomorrow."

"_Ve~ _Ludwig is so kind!" Feliciano comments with a gentle laugh. "That would be nice though…I'd like that very much."

"Please don't think much of it," the blue-eyed boy reddens at the thought, averting his gaze as he coughs to clear his throat. "I'll only be assisting-"

"I know, I know," the Italian placates with a gentle tone. "So…tomorrow at nine?"

"_Ja._ Tomorrow at nine."

"It'll be a date then," the artist says with a smile, as he ushers the model into the old studio, their routine setting calmly back into motion with soft-spoken words, glissading paintbrushes, and the abating glow cast by the sun and lost in the time of the late afternoon.

* * *

**Translations:**

[Italian]

_Sono benissimo - _I'm fine

_Hai sognato di lui? - _Did you dream about him?

_Si - _yes

_fratello - _brother

[German]

_Drücken sie sich nicht - _Don't push yourself too hard

_Ja - _yes

**Reviews are much loved & appreciated. :)**


	7. The Soul is a Window Into the Heart

Hi guys! Just a little update before I tread on to the dangerous waters that is our school's exam week. Last week, we had project making for 3 days, so that meant no classes/lectures at all and all hours were devoted to cramming projects and building popsicle stick bridges and making videos and oh god it was just stressful. I had a fucking amazing group, though and we managed to finish all the workload ahead of time, so I managed to sneak in some work on this fic as I spent my time in school looking 'productive' in between periods. Word of warning though, I'm sorry I absolutely cannot write decent date scenes. ;A; (please don't hate me, my imagination can only do so much and I have no experience whatsoever I am a sad teenager huhu) And my attempt at fluff here is just pitiful. HAHAHA. FORGIVE ME PLS. orz

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

"Where do you want this to go?" the German says as he holds the framed canvas in his hands, a large cradle of wood withholding the painted memory of a cherished sunset.

At this, the Italian flashes him a grin, albeit a little shy and bashful, and responds to his query gently. "Just hang it beside the landscape of the trees in the left wing. _Grazie._"

The artist eyes him carefully as the model turns on his heel with a dutiful nod, movements rhythmic and not robotic, with lack and absence of even a single flaw. He acts with precision, quick and with haste, a dash of grace in his motions beguiling the artist and grabbing hold of his attention. It enthrals him, and he can't help but stare.

Feliciano struggles to tear his gaze away, lest the model be bothered to question his intentions.

-x-

"It's beautiful," he says, breathing the words out in a whisper, voice soft but not ashamed.

They're in the corner of the museum, the deepest end of the gallery, now working to display the fifth of Feliciano's masterpieces. The copper-clad frame of the large painting towered over them, their two lone figures standing alongside one another amidst the emptiness of their scene. Leather shoes slide past marble tiles, running along their surface as Feliciano shrinks the vast expanse of their distanced breadth, tinny squeaks overpowering the solemn quiet of the hallway.

"_Grazie, _Ludwig," Feliciano says as he turns away from the painting, his irises warm and bright, as he locks his gaze onto that of a pair of pale blue. "This painting means a lot to me, you know, so I'm really happy that you like it."

"You don't mean—"

"I told you that you two looked alike, didn't it? " The artist cuts him off with a hearty chuckle, and then, later, a gentle, off-handed laugh. "Even your expressions are the same."

The German inspects it further, eyeing the masterpiece that lay before his eyes. A boy lived in the canvas; flaxen blonde hair, eyes the colour of the sky – a bright, vivid, blue shade of sapphire. His lips were curved upwards in a tight-lipped smile, a dash of pink blush tingeing his cheeks.

"That's him, Ludwig," the artist says with a sad smile, nostalgia surging through his soul as it blurred his vision with a light coat of dovetailed mist and loneliness. "That's the boy."

-x-

It's a quarter past twelve when the two finish hanging the paintings in the museum, and the sound of their grumbling stomachs is enough for the young Italian to coax the model to join him for lunch.

"_Ehi_, Ludwig," Feliciano says as he tosses the folded cloth that wrapped his canvases into the cardboard box of the room; he's on the floor, knees folded as he sits quaintly, an apron on top of his button-up, sleeves rolled up until his elbows, sweat on his arms and traces of dried paint lingering on his fingertips. "Let's go out."

"Mr. Feliciano," the model splutters at the other's choice of words, swallowing thickly, cheeks marred with a faint trace of rose. "What are you implying?"

He is quiet for a moment; the absence of his words the only response that he grants the German. And though his ever-perpetual smile is playing on his lips once more, his gaze has grown distant. Feliciano can't bring himself to think of a response, his mind all a blur of scattered memories – blue eyes, blonde hair, a black coat, and warm hands.

There's really no denying how much they're alike.

"_Ve~ _But I'm hungry, Ludwig, "the Italian whines to the German, his tone lackadaisical as he continues to prod on; bringing a hand up his waist to untie the knot of the apron that hung on his frame. "Isn't it about time we head on out for some lunch? _Pranzo? _"

"Ah, well, yes," the German says as he clears his throat to respond, glancing at his wrist to view the time on his watch. "I suppose it is time for us to eat,"

As always, he flashes him a smile, winning the seemingly stoic model over with the power of his Italian charm. Without a word of warning, he grabs hold of Ludwig's hand and cradles it in his, a swift graceful motion done before a single moment can be wasted any more. "Let's continue our date then, shall we?"

-x-

"Ludwig! Ludwig! Look, _ve!"_ Feliciano pipes up as they walk past the crowd, the tenor his voice bright and cheery and coming off as tiny squeaks. "There's a cinema over there! They're showing Al Jolson's 'The Jazz Singer;' he's really great, _ve! _And it's got May McAvoy playing that Mary Dale character, and she's a real _bella, _you know! Do you want to watch? "

"I suppose we could-"

"They've got flapper girls there too, " Feliciano continues, his mouth cutting the other boy off to explain further, "you know, those _ragazze _with their large necklaces and short, fancy dresses." He looks at the German, his bright amber eyes widening with curiosity and a little bit of surprise. And to Ludwig's consternation, he sees that little hint of a smirk, the minute curve of a smile, teasing and mischievous, playing on the artist's lips. "_Ehi, _Ludwig, do you like flapper girls?"

The model reddens, his expression on the cusp of embarrassment. "_Nein,_" he says before averting his gaze and clearing his throat to respond, "I don't. Nevermind."

_"Oppure,_ how about we go to that jazz club over there? It's really fun and the music's so nice. There's this pianist, Mr. Ellington, and he's such a _virtuoso. _It's like when he plays; he brings back the colour and the vigour back into the dullness of our lives," the Italian says, a pleasant warmth twinkling in his eyes, "just like how Mr. Roderich would play for me when I was a kid. It's so pretty."

The artist moves on to point to the building across the street, attention shifting to a new distraction, prattling on a whole new tangent altogether. "O, they're holding a dance marathon there later tonight! You know, my _fratello _taught me the Charleston there before, and the American Tango. But I swear, they must've named it wrong. It should've just been the Italian Tango, you know? It was so easy and fun to learn, _ve, _it was like it was made just for us Italians! I'll show you. Oh, and we could dance, too!" He says with a little clap of his hands, stopping only as realization dawns on his face. "Ah, but Ludwig, do you know how to Charleston? Or foxtrot? I guess I could teach you, too, but I'm not very good in teaching, _ve…"_

"We could grab ourselves a drink in the café there instead, " Ludwig says as he motions towards the humble café, entitled _Kirkland's Finest: Delectable Delights, _'_Offering Scrumptious Scones – two dollars for a set of fifteen!' _written on a banner taped to the clear glass window. "You're still just recovering after all, so I think it's best that we avoid such frivolous activities before your condition relapses and you fall sick again. "

"_Ve~ _Ludwig's so wise," the artist says in appraisal, tone brimming with a semblance of reverent awe. "Okay then, _ho fame_, so let's eat. It'll be my treat!"

"_Nein,_ _stören nicht_, that's all right," the model interrupts as he opens the door to lead them both inside. "It'll be mine."

* * *

I apologize for the OOC-ness. I hope this was still okay for you guys. Please leave a review? It would mean a lot. Thank you!

**Translations:**

[Italian]

_Ehi – _hey

_pranzo - _lunch

_bella- _beauty

_ragazze -_ girls

_oppure - _or

_Ho fame - _I'm hungry

[German]

_Nein,_ _stören nicht – _No, do not bother


End file.
